


Let the Game Begin

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [19]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Beginning of a New Chapter, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationships, Gen, Gobblepot (implied/one-sided), One-Sided Attraction, coming to terms, peace talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “A toast.” He declares, ascending his glass in one hand. “To Gotham.  And to The Game…for which I have found a most extraordinary opponent.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this turned out shorter than I imagined, but I've learned it's best to not push these things if the story and characters don't want to go there. We have reached the conclusion of "The Game". A HUGE thanks to everyone who has followed this series and left kudos and/or comments. You guys are the best and you are the reason I keep writing. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> If anyone is wondering about a follow-up series, drop me a comment or an email. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no characters or events related to the television series "Gotham" or the "Batman" franchise. I own only my original character(s) and the events created for purposes of this work. Thank you.

Once in a long while, we come to a point in which we realize Life has kicked us upside the head once too many, and it’s quite time to reconsider our choices.

For Oswald Cobblepot, that point comes too little, too late, and now he’s swallowing the bitter pill of irony with a cold press practically taped to his forehead and a stomach withering away without a hint of protest on the matter. The ever-present pain in his leg would be a glorious comfort in place of this, but against the writhing agony of poison leisurely working out of his system, his leg is barely noticeable.

Gabe tends to him faithfully, nearly as doting as a mother. Once or twice, Oswald considers calling Mother, seeking her to his bedside for her loving care and sweet murmurings in his ear. But she’ll ask questions he can’t answer. So many questions…and he simply can’t. His dear, sweet, woefully naïve mother. The separation between his world and her world of blissful ignorance mustn’t merge. They mustn’t even brush in distant passing. The thought of it terrifies him.

If he’s to look at the glass remotely half-full, being bedridden provides plenty of time to think. Reflect. Consider all that has transpired and start trying to plot out the future. Of course, all this comes during the second week. The first week is spent nursing liquid through a straw and feeling sorry for himself.

After the sulking finally passes, he’s able to sit upright (with the assistance of about twelve pillows), asks Gabe to bring a notebook and his favorite fountain pen, then sends for a cheaper pen because his hand is shaking terribly and he’ll not waste precious ink. Finally, he settles with his paper, his pen, and his water glass. And he thinks.

He thinks about the future, about the world he’ll return to once this miserable ailment is passed. On the paper, he idly visualizes thoughts, plans, ambitions…and yet, for all his creativity and spiraling thoughts, it all comes down to the same dilemma. The same nagging problem without solution. The knocking at the back of his head day and night.

No future he envisions, no matter how wildly ambitious he tries, is one without Jim Gordon and Iris DeLaine at the direct center of it.

It leaves him with a most unpleasant taste in his mouth. Jim is the source of bitter pain and cold dismissal, each one a stinging blow worse than the relentless teasing on his childhood playgrounds and more piercing than a blade. Easier would be to cast the man away, exile him from Oswald’s life and banish him from memory. But it is impossible. Neither of them will leave Gotham. Gotham holds Jim with unyielding claws atop a pedestal from which she hasn’t yet dropped him, not completely. She beats Jim mercilessly and still cradles him to her bosom while the wounds heal in slow time. She’ll never relinquish him, and Oswald holds great suspicions it is her greatest form of torture yet: binding them together and simultaneously wrenching them apart.

Iris…Iris is an entirely different matter.

He underestimated her. He underestimated her greatly and pays the cruel price for his arrogance. In the reckless heat of desperation, he miscalculated—quite beyond any prior errors made in his life. And yet, for reasons he even now cannot fathom, he failed to consider it might come to this. He looked upon that sweet little mouth and those blue eyes and thought nothing of it. Let her façade be exposed for what it is, and leave him victorious once more.

But those blue eyes are made of ice, and beneath sweet lips are a wolf’s teeth. Hatred ran like venom in her blood, and yet he wonders how many calculations she made. The arsenic slipped with admirable precision in her drink was remarkable, but did she know he might be swayed by such immature impulses and drink his own death draught? If he hadn’t, what then? What plans had she made to counter the first? How could she have timed Jim’s arrival, and Zsasz’s, with such precision? How? _How?_

The only conclusion scribbled in dreadfully-messy scrawl, across page after page after page, is the inconceivable: she planned only the minutest details. The rest, left to pure chance.

It’s impossible. Utterly impossible. He’s given the girl little notice in past months, but one thing he is _not_ ignorant of is her intelligence. Graduate program complete by her 18th year. Brilliant assistant in the GCPD coroner’s office. Don Falcone’s pride and joy. The point stands, without fail, she is far too smart to leave so many details unaccounted for. It’s a riddle, and he must know the answer. He’ll go mad without it!

Gabe returns within the same hour he left, and his answer is astonishing: she agreed. She agreed to meet with him. Iris DeLaine—the very same who flooded his system with arsenic—agreed to meet with him.

He supposes stranger things have happened. But there will be time to consider it all later. First and foremost, he needs to clean up. This place is a pigsty, and he barely looks a fraction better.

***

Her agreement to meet with him is courteous enough, but he hardly expects the girl to hold true and arrive without accompaniment. Given the circumstances, he certainly wouldn’t go alone if the roles were reversed. The very notion is a step to lunacy. And even if she was keen to flirt with Death, surely Zsasz wouldn’t permit it. That man holds her in such protective coils. Surely he’ll be in her shadow, even if lurking just out of sight.

The dark hole in his hand is a reminder of it.

The surprise is justified then, when the ten o’clock morning hour arrives two days later. The office has been cleaned, dusted, and polished until it gleams. There are fresh logs in the hearth and a fire burning within them, radiating heat throughout the room. Gabe has paid a visit down the street to a favorite baker and returned with piping hot pastries, accompanied by a pot of fresh-brewed tea. Oswald has dressed himself in a suit, dragged himself into his chair, and waiting for an hour with hands trembling in his lap. And then, five minutes before the hour, Gabe announces Miss DeLaine and shows her inside.

She’s alone. When he throws a questioning look at Gabe, the large man reads it accordingly and nods. She’s alone. She kept her word. She’s alone.

Obviously, he’s staring at her like a fish flopped on the floor with a gaping mouth gulping for water, because her slim eyebrows lift sharply and her mouth quirks a bit. “Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Cobblepot?”

Tea. _There’s tea._ “I rather think I should be asking you the same question.” He fumbles around the words, but they still come out coherently, so at least he’s not lost all notions of dignity. “T-That is…may I offer you some tea, Miss DeLaine? And Gabe was kind enough to bring some pastries. I…” _Pull yourself together, Oswald; Mother did raise you to be a gentleman, after all_ , “…I wasn’t sure if you would eat before…before arriving.”

“Actually, I have not.” She says, settling into the chair Gabe’s pulled out for her, with a soft whisper of scarlet skirts and perfect grace. “I confess, I was not expecting this, Mr. Cobblepot.”

What to say to that? Her honesty is genuine. Her point fiercely valid. Yet her manners remain gracious and she seems remarkably docile in the harsh light of their last encounter. Something has changed. Something is different.

“Well,” he swallows; the motion reminds him how dry his throat is, and he should help himself to some tea—but not before his guest is served, “I behaved like a barbarian the last time you visited me. Or…I supposed, both prior times…”

His eyes drop to her hand; the scar has healed to so pale a pink that one must study with unwavering attention just to glimpse it. He’s a little jealous. If only all scars healed with such elegant precision.

She clears her throat, softly, and he flushes to find her pouring the tea: the guest playing host in face of the latter's ineptitude. “The past is written in ink, Mr. Cobblepot.” She slides his cup forward, for which his trembling hands are most grateful. “The future is not, and Time is an impatient creature for those who waste it. So, permit me to get straight to the point: what do you want?”

Alright, so she isn’t a soft-spoken little lamb after all. Good. He’s dreadfully unaware of how to properly tend to the gentle sex, save his sainted mother. A sharp tongue and a spirit to match, man or woman… _this_ he knows. This he can work with, and gladly.

“Our prior encounters,” his voice sounds steady, with far more confidence than he personally feels, so the only thing left is to ensure his hands don’t quake with the tea, “have proved nothing but a wheel of destructive behavior. It is my opinion, then, if we both wish to move forward, there’s only one thing to do: break the cycle.”

The left side of her mouth curls upward around her tea; when she lowers the cup, the thinly-amused expression is more prominent. “You seem to have done considerable reflecting over these past weeks, Mr. Cobblepot. The question is, what conclusions have you reached?”

“None.” He says candidly; no point in dancing around the point with a woman trained in the art of reading body language. “Or—permit me to correct myself—I should say, none that don’t involve you.”

“You almost sound sentimental.” She replies. “And in the same breath, overwhelmingly frustrated.”

Oswald pauses, then resumes a long draught from his cup. If for no other reason than to present as a good host, he proffers the pastry dish. She plays along, selecting a Cherry Danish for herself; though he presently has no appetite, he plucks a Cream Cheese. One finger smears icing across the tip, and he passes another few seconds by daintily sucking the digit clean before giving it a solitary wipe across his napkin. Then he clears his throat, folds both hands crisply in his lap, and sits upright. It’s a pleasant reassurance, to assume good posture and feel some semblance of control settle back within his grasp.

“Permit me to speak frankly, Miss DeLaine?”

“I find you incapable of speaking otherwise, even in eloquent terms.” She answers, an eyebrow gliding upward. “It would be a refreshing change of pace, however, to have you speak _honestly_.”

His pride finds her brash commentary uncalled for; the rest of him possesses enough common sense to bite his tongue and acknowledge the truth of her words, however undiplomatically they were phrased. “Very well.” He murmurs, with another sip to wet his throat. “Then permit me to speak honestly.”

“I very much wish you would, Mr. Cobblepot.”

As if under a magician’s spell, the spoken permission loosens his tongue in ways that place his diminished composure neatly on display. He speaks without filters, without the elegance of his silver tongue. Once or twice, he tries to tailor the endless barrage tumbling free, but promptly makes the mistake of looking in her eyes—those cool blue eyes, their attention unwavering, their gaze without judgment—and he thinks of the first moment he saw those eyes. He thinks of the humiliation, locked within an exposed cage in the police precinct, no cares and no compassion, and then the shimmer of pale blue eyes flicking across a great space to him. He saw many things in those eyes, that day, but among them…sympathy. Not pity. Pity was a close acquaintance to him, after being in its company one too many times. But Iris didn’t give him pity. She gave him and his lowly place in life her sympathy, a glimmer of compassion in silence.

And he hated her for it.

The hate fuels him onward, and he gives her honesty without restraints, without filters, and without boundaries. He speaks, on and on, but instead of an alleviated burden, he feels the weight more oppressive than ever before. It’s frustrating. This should be a cathartic experience: to speak without interruptions and hurl every grievance at her feet and taste no punishment for it. But he feels no relief. If anything, he feels worse.

Abruptly, mid-stream of an entirely different thought, he veers recklessly off-course. Both hands, still fisted tight together, slam down into his lap, and the words explode from his mouth. “Why? Why _you_? Why does he _always_ choose you??”

The words drop with the subtlety of shattering glass. He feels ice coat his veins, bitterly cold, and a shudder racks his body. Complete loss of control. Every last shred of dignified composure he previously clung to, tossed aside in a fit of rage. He can’t look at her, so the flames dancing within their brick confines seize his attention.

Then, after a very heavy and tenuous silence, he hears Iris sigh. The rustle of skirts whispers in the air. And finally, a voice soft—so soft it’s nearly swallowed by the spit of fire against brick—and delicate breaks the tension. “Are we still talking about Victor…or are we talking about James?”

_James._ Of course, he’s not the only person to address Jim by his full name—perhaps one of few; certainly not the one and only (more’s the pity)—but it doesn’t soothe the icy burn of bitter regret when Jim’s name falls so softly from Iris’ lips. To her, the detective’s name is a tender expression, a gentle exhale of air. In his mind’s eye, Oswald envisions Jim— _James_ —addressed by his daughter. He imagines a fond smile, an eagerness to beckon at her call. A silent promise to move Heaven and Earth, just to make her happy.

And then he thinks of Jim, when Oswald’s voice is the one to speak his hallowed name. He remembers a visible cringe, a hesitant compliance, and never a hint of trust. Never a fleeting glimpse of happiness or delight. Emotions curtained off from view, and all that remains is a gaze saturated in distrust.

The unfairness of it churns acid in his throat and burns tears across his eyelids. The latter don’t make a betraying appearance, but only because he turns his head and makes a flimsy pretense of brushing some drifting ash from his eyes.

His silence is taken in stride for a short beat, then Iris releases a slow breath. “I have seen the way you look at my father, Oswald.”

No one calls him by name, save his blessed mother. Mother calls him by the name she gave him at birth, and when she does, it sounds sweeter than a lullaby. Her voice is always so soft, loving for all his faults—though, of course, he possesses none in her eyes. To think of anyone else addressing him by name either produces bitter memories (Fish Mooney ranking highest in said category) or—only ever pertaining to Jim…cold, distant, unattainable Jim—a glorious rush of warmth immediately. The latter is always short-lived, always coated by the chill of reality that Jim will never call him by name.

But Iris does.

“If you wish to mock,” he heaves the words with resignation, “I implore you to get it over with, my dear.”

Silence, again; he suffers it for five torturous minutes and then finally tosses a frustrated gaze her way. In place of the cold amusement he expects, her slim eyebrows are knitted together and her mouth is tight in a frown. It looks wrong. Her face is far too smooth, elegantly formed like porcelain; her mouth is too pretty a shape to be so distorted.

He’s not sure he wants to see her smile, not in these circumstances, but the frown makes her look ugly. She’s many things, but she isn’t ugly.

It’s only when his fingertips brush the left side of her cheek that he realizes the movement, and as such the terribly invasion of her personal space. He jerks his hand back, as if scalded by an open flame, but it’s too little, too late. He anticipates the anger, perhaps a strike to the offending palm, but Iris remains unmoved.

“Forgive me.” He stumbles; the hand now clenched in his lap is shaking violently. From the peripheral, he sees her head tilt slightly to one side. When he dares a better look, he sees a lovely swan-like throat, white and smooth and framed by velvet-black locks of silk. He sees features smoothed once more, the frown replaced with a contemplative look that touches little of her face but radiates in those clear blue eyes. He sees every detail, crafted to perfection, wrapped in scarlet silk of the finest quality. Her left leg is draped over the right, revealing a skirt deliberately interrupted by long slits, but black stockings cling jealously to each limb. In her modesty, she is more sensual than any woman who traipses half-dressed across his stage, night after night.

Her beauty has never been more apparent than this cursed moment. The only thing more blinding in its clarity is the answer to _Why_. Why Victor Zsasz would be lured away from the promise of blood and death for a girl. Zsasz has no limitations on charm—obscure and unorthodox though it may be—and plenty of women are willing to spread their legs for him. Why her? Why this one?

He understands now. He understands everything. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make anything better.

“Why would I mock you?” she asks, so very softly.

“Why would you _not_ mock me?” his tone is heavy and weary; he slumps back in the chair, forgoing proper posture from pure exhaustion. “I can think of no greater entertainment to alleviate this…melancholy little mood we’ve put ourselves in, Iris. Go on, then. Please. I promise, I won’t be offended. You can’t possibly speak a single insult or dismiss my…feelings. Nothing I haven’t already told myself. Many…many times.”

This time, she doesn’t entertain silence. She sits upright to contradict his shameful slouching, one hand locked tight around her knee, and her eyes flash fire—the brilliance of which dulls the flames to nothing but blurry lights. “Do you believe I know nothing of _desire_ , Oswald?” her voice is low, but sharp and resonating. “Do you look at me and believe I merely seduced Victor with primal behavior? I assure you, I did not. I assure you, ours is not a love story woven from the fabric of fairytales. I have spent more nights wanting to eviscerate that man than I have fantasizing sweet visions of love and romance. He has dragged me through the mud as often as he has picked me up from it, and he has crushed my spirit just as many times as he has breathed new life into it.”

“And yet, here you are.” Oswald whispers. “I’ve seen things too, Iris. I have seen the way Victor looks at you. I have seen how he _worships_ you in nothing but a passing gaze. I have seen the way he touches you. …Kisses you. Holds you. I imagine he is nothing less than shameless in his devotion of you, when there are no eyes to watch. He looks at you in ways no one—man or woman—has ever looked at me, and I won’t bother lying just to mask jealousy. Because I am. I am jealous of you, in ways I can't begin to list. To have Jim look at me, just for _one_ moment, the way Victor does you…”

He lets the fantasy die a merciful death, then sighs heavily. “So, no, my dear; I am quite certain you know of desire. I equally am sure that you have reaped the unadulterated benefits of desire, and I have not. Forgive me if I fail to see the parallels you are attempting to draw between us.”

“I am not drawing parallels.” She replies, and he can’t deny a healthy dose of surprise. “I am pointing out a very distinct and very key difference between us.”

“…What might that be?”

“ _Trust_.” The word drops off her tongue and hits him like a bullet of ice. “For all those moments I hated Victor, all the moments I feared him, and all the moments I loved him…I have always, completely, implicitly, and wholly trusted him. Now, I ask you, what have _you_ given James to trust?”

Indignation flushes his face in shades of red. “I offered him friendship!” his hands tremble and must be fitted around the stable structure of wood, just to hold the façade of composure a moment longer. “I wanted to work with him—as partners, as _friends_! Together, I knew we could build a better Gotham. But he—”

“—gave you a chance to prove yourself honest, did he not?” Iris interrupts, ever softly. “With that repulsive little rat Arnold Flass. He came to you, seeking your aid and asking in return only that no one be hurt. You looked him in the eye, swore no one would come to harm…and what did you instruct Gabriel to do? Drown an innocent woman halfway to her watery grave, in front of her husband, until he gave you the information you wanted.”

“These people can’t be reasoned with, Iris!” now he’s sputtering; it’s embarrassing, to say the least, but there are words to be said and if he can’t find a better way to express himself…so be it. “Do you really think if I had politely inquired for details, Jim would have been able to put that man away? You have to speak a language they understand!”

“Then _be honest_ about it.” She says, eyes narrowing. “I will not deny a sense of embarrassment, that Jim believed this matter could be resolved with civility, but the least you could have done was put a bit of good sense in his head about it. Would he have agreed? Perhaps not. But he would have known, in that moment, you regarded him with enough respect to give him the truth—whether he wanted to hear it or not.”

He sits in complete silence, no doubt with the same gaping expression as a goldfish. A mind accustomed to picking apart the tiniest details, rearranging them into something more appealing for itself, and then spinning a new line, fails in its task. He can find nothing debatable about her words, and he hates it. This is _his_ game to win, and now…

“And the money? The debt you sent him to collect?” her gaze hardens with the mere words, and he knows the time has arrived for her to list her own grievances. “Do you expect me to believe you thought Barker would be a gentleman about it? You sent James into a firing zone. You nearly got him killed. …Just like you did Victor.”

He might have known this would come up again. Her temper may be tamed, but the bitterness has lost none of its edge. “Those bullets weren’t meant for Victor.” Oswald finally says. She wants honesty? He’ll give it to her.

“Of that, I am more than aware.” She replies tersely. “But it does not matter who was intended to die that night. It matters who ended up with _five_ bullets in his chest.”

Silence, then she leans forward. He can’t help but liken the movement to a cobra, swaying in the breeze before it strikes. “How would you have felt, Oswald, if James had died that night? Would you have felt anything, hearing that Barker’s men emptied their guns into his heart? Or would you have simply moved on?”

“ _Moved on_?” he heaves the words back at her when his hand lacks the strength to deliver a physical blow. “How could you…how _dare_ you suggest I could move on? Without Jim, Gotham is—!”

She blinks in the face of his rage, and he feels understanding dawn like a warm summer morning. Of course…of course. She knew what the mere suggestion would do. What kind of reaction it would inspire from him. In itself, such a reaction ought to answer the questions which have plagued him for weeks: she calculates every move even when it appears she acts on pure impulse. There’s no sense to it, and even less probability…but anything is possible.

It’s fascinating. And it’s terrifying. The things her mind is capable of…

“Without James,” Iris whispers, fingers lacing beneath her chin, “Gotham is a desolate wasteland. Without James, Life is empty and hollow and meaningless. But while he lives, while he still breathes air and walks this earth…you will walk through Hell to be with him.”

And she knows of Hell, doesn’t she? He sees it in her eyes: these beautiful blue eyes of an old soul. He wonders what horrors she has seen. What torture did that man—the man they called _Ogre_ —put her through, that an innocent soul found the capacity to kill? What turned her from fair maiden into she-wolf?

He releases a slow breath, rests his head lightly at the chair’s extended back, and lifts both eyebrows. “So then…where do we go from here?”

“Where anyone in their right mind would go, Oswald.” She answers. “Forward.”

“And what does it mean to go _forward_?” By simply definition, he knows what it means. What he doesn’t know, is what it means for him. For her. For Jim. For all of them. What does it mean to move on and move forward?

It’s about this time he realizes, such that it leaves a most disgusting taste in his mouth, how little he really moves on in life. How stationary he stays, running the same wheel like a little gerbil, locked in a cycle he never puts real effort into breaking. Oh, naturally, there are little bursts of ingenuity here and there; some grand innovative idea which requires an abundance of effort to plan and put into motion…and ultimately amount to nothing.

“Well,” Iris sounds curiously cheerful, now settled back in her chair with a calm smile on her lips, “I imagine that is what you and I will soon find out, is it not?”

A knock at the door interrupts Oswald’s intended response—whether or not it was destined to be a coherent and well-developed response, he supposes they’ll never know—and Gabe pokes his head in. “Since you two haven’t managed to do yourselves in,” he quips, earning a brief glower from his boss, “how about some champagne? Got it coolin’ in the freezer.”

Ordinarily, he’d love a bit of champagne (“a bit” meaning the whole bottle), but he has terrible visions of what might happen, should alcohol meet his belly anytime between now and…oh, say, five years from now. But the offer is that of a good and gracious host, and he’s loathes the thought of presenting as anything else, especially now that the pastries have gone cold with the tea.

“Actually,” Iris says, bestowing Gabe with a most gentile smile, “perhaps you have some ginger ale, or sparkling cider? Alcohol does not agree with my stomach these days.”

“Bring the cider, Gabe.” Oswald adds, leaping headfirst onto the offer with eager hands. Later, he’ll think to wonder why, exactly, Iris can no longer handle spirits, but for now he’s too relieved at the suggestion. “This is a special occasion, after all.”

Gabe does as he’s instructed, returning a short time later with two glasses and a tall green bottle bedecked in gold foil and (a charming little tongue-in-cheek addition by his employee, no doubt) a bright pink ribbon tied around the neck. He gives Gabe a warranted look while accepting the bottle, and tosses the ribbon aside while he pours the drinks. Half a minute later, in the process of extending Iris’ glass to her, he finds the young woman thoughtfully threading pink silk through her fingers. There is something extraordinarily soft about her expression, a fragile glimpse into an entirely new side of her design…and he makes a mental note to give Gabe an extra few nights off.

“A toast.” He declares, ascending his glass in one hand. The flames dance in time with a hundred little bubbles, and the pale gold liquid flashes its darker counterparts, off and on: a kaleidoscope of one color, a dozen different shades. “To Gotham. And to The Game…for which I have found a most extraordinary opponent.”

Her smile matches his: a razor-sharp expression, a threat and a promise, all in one glorious curve of dark red. “ _En garde_.”


End file.
